


Eyes Shut

by weakzen



Series: Selective Sight [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Anger, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kissing, Non-Con Nude Photos, Pain, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, Public Display of Affection, Slow Romance, Teasing, Threats, Touching, Trauma, Violent Thoughts, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakzen/pseuds/weakzen
Summary: Oh no, Mason and the Detective find Bobby knocked out cold on the sidewalk! No one saw what happened to him.Just like no one saw anyone cry—and no one saw any comfort either.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Series: Selective Sight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967836
Comments: 15
Kudos: 47





	Eyes Shut

A jab would send him sprawling, easily.

Wouldn't even take any leg drive, just a sloppy, weak strike thrown from the shoulder. He'd go stumbling backwards, skidding over yellow leaves, splashing through rain puddles, phone flying up and away to clatter on the ground, screen shattered. Hands flying up too, toward the pain exploding across his face, pointless but instinctive, when he really ought to be using those arms to protect his head from cracking against the sidewalk.

I snort a little, and eye the concrete planter a few meters away.

Hell, if I did it with a proper pivot, I could probably get him to land in that. Knock his glasses off, too.

Knock him out cold as well. Probably fracture his jaw along with it.

And destroy the station's beautiful chrysanthemums and dahlias—though, I think Tina would consider it a worthy sacrifice.

In the distance, streetlights flicker to life, cars drive over wet asphalt, the last of the daylight bleeds red across the sky, chased by a cloudy smattering of stars, and Bobby continues yammering on at me, oblivious to it all. Reading something from his phone that couldn't wait. An upcoming article, I think. Admonishment, I'm sure, for something I did wrong again. Pouty lips illuminated by his screen, blasting puffs of hot air in more than one way, flapping relentlessly with eager disapproval and a frown that barely conceals the cutting smugness in his voice.

He'd never see my fist coming, either. Because he's not looking, obviously.

Because he doesn't see _me_ at all—and never has.

I'm just… an enraptured audience for him. An adoring mirror. A rung to higher places. A pretty doll. A trophy. An angel.

Not a person.

Certainly not someone capable of loathing his ratshit fucking guts and who has every goddamn reason to throw that punch and all the long years of practice to make it _really_ fucking count.

I shove my hands deeper into my jacket and blow out a puff of my own, breath coming shallow against the tension winding in my chest.

That's something he almost took from me as well, now that I think about it.

My ability to fight.

He never liked how much time I spent training. Or the types of exercise I did. Said all of it was making me too bulky. Too muscular. That I was ruining my 'femininity' and 'soft, natural beauty.' That the scars were already unattractive enough, no need for hideous bruises too, and physical combat was just brutish. Barbaric. Beneath someone of my intellectual caliber. An unworthy pursuit. A waste of effort. Irresponsible, really, to let my mind rot away in favor of it. And he was just looking out for me and my best interests by pointing these things out, you know. Speaking honestly, when no one else had the courage. Taking care of me, when no one else ever had.

Showing his love, one jagged hollow-point comment at a time, jacketed in concern and fired my direction, until enough of them hit and tore through, expanding and eroding away, that little remained of me eventually other than a raw, bloody mess and the total belief in his correctness.

For a time, anyway.

Too long a time.

“Did you catch all of that, Detective Black?”

The irritated edge to his tone snaps my attention back to him immediately, if not my eyes. Alarm flares inside me for an instant, atavistic instinct surging out of dormancy on a wave of adrenaline, but I inhale slightly and let it pass.

Then I make him wait a little bit longer, blinking a few times before I focus my gaze on his.

“Not really,” I reply flatly, shrugging. “Bullshit has a real sedative effect on me.”

I force a yawn at him, something large and unapologetically open-mouthed that probably ruins my femininity too, and I try to stretch out some of that tightness from my back and body. But Bobby's eyes only crawl over me as I do, lingering on my breasts and exposed midriff before I quickly drop my arms and pull my jacket tighter.

“Why don't we continue this discussion at your apartment, then?” He leers at me, voice dipping queasily low, “And afterward, I can refresh you on all the ways I know how to keep you awake and… fully aroused.”

My face twists into an open grimace and I exhale a sharp noise of disgust. Bobby advances regardless, smirk coiling beneath a heated look, and my fingers clench into fists.

I fucking swear, if he touches me again—

But he doesn't.

He stops dead in his tracks almost immediately, gaze flicking past me, eyes narrowing, right before a hand splays warm across my lower back and I breathe in a familiar scent.

Smoke and sandalwood.

Startling me far more than the touch, for the rush of unexpected comfort it brings.

The hand slides around to my hip and Mason swings in front of me with it, blocking Bobby and everything else as he leans down with a smirk to press his lips against mine.

He deepens the kiss quickly, tongue slipping hot into my mouth, hand sliding around my back, the other up into my hair, tangling, urging me closer, until I'm on my toes, arms hooked around his neck, kissing him eagerly as we press fully together. I lose myself in him for a moment. His warmth. His welcome, pleasurable respite. His reassurance too, however unknown and unintentional, that I don't have to face Bobby alone this time.

Because I can do it alone. I have done it alone.

But having someone around just as ready to dunk that insufferable piece of shit into a nearby planter always makes enduring his presence a hell of lot more bearable.

Enjoyable, even, in some regards.

And maybe Mason agrees with me on that point, if the grin that keeps tugging at his lips is any indication.

I can't help but return it, and soon I'm shaking against him with growing, barely subdued laughter. His hands squeeze me in response, smile spreading against my mouth before he pulls back slightly, gazing down at me with half-lidded eyes heavy with desire and amusement.

“You ready to go home, sweetheart? Your ride's here.”

Mason rolls his hips forward for emphasis, sliding his hands down to cup my ass too as he grinds against me. I burst into open laughter—and I grind back, weight swaying off his neck, cheeks flushed, breath catching as well, when his eyes darken above into something more serious.

When they smolder deeply and then it suddenly _is_ just the two of us. Embracing.

And all I can feel—all I want to feel—is him pressed against every fucking piece of me.

Until Bobby's voice slashes through the moment anyway, clipped and raised.

“Well, don't be _rude_ , angel. Introduce me to your _colleague_.”

The sharpness to his tone surprises me a little. So does Mason, when he immediately whirls on Bobby.

“The fuck did you just call her?” Mason sneers. “' _Angel_?'”

Bobby takes a few steps back. Uncertainty flashes across his face before he recovers, ever the opportunist, eyes darting from Mason to lock on mine as he smirks again.

“You only need to take one look at her to see that,” Bobby coos, sweet as a mouthful of antifreeze and just as revolting. “She _is_ an angel. My gorgeous muse. My inspiration—”

Something twists sharply inside of me.

A ragged scoff surges past my lips and I rush forward, whipping around Mason until I'm crowding into Bobby's face, forcing him to retreat even more. “I think 'host' is a better word, _Robert_ ,” I spit, “before I plucked you off and flicked you away like the destructive fucking parasite you are.”

Bobby's expression singes away beneath the heat of my outburst, blasted into shock. It startles me too, the force of my words. The vehemence burning my tone. The fact I'm standing in front of him like this at all, heart thundering and suddenly overwhelmed, knotting with emotion, too much of it, too intense, expanding, filling my chest, until it tangles around my throat and chokes so tight I can barely breathe, barely keep from trembling, barely hold back those hot fucking tears blurring my vision and threatening to spill down my cheeks.

_Inspiration_.

Something he claimed I took from him.

A word that echoed high and often against the walls and coffered ceiling of the tribunal, along with every other one of his fucking lies.

I can still hear it.

Still feel the hem of my skirt twisted around my fingers, wrinkled, stretched taut, unable to stop my hands from shaking. Still smell the musty books and ammonia, the cheap washroom soap and tang of vomit burning raw in my throat. Still taste the salt on my tongue, the steady swallow of mucus, the sobs I can't let out, not here, not now, but they just keep coming anyway, straining against a wall of clenched teeth, shuddering silent through my body while I spin inside the swirling, sickening, heartbroken disbelief that any of it's actually happening. That he's actually saying these things about me. That he actually _did_ this to me.

That he's actually fucking trying to blame it all on me.

Like he always does.

A touch from behind draws me back, shoves out the air trapped in my lungs, then an arm slings across my shoulders and Mason pulls me in against his chest.

My hands slide upward, unthinking, unintentionally, but there they are, suddenly beneath his jacket, pressed against the warmth of his back, clutching at him while his other hand comes up to squeeze my hip. My head tips forward too, also unintentional, and trying to swerve at the last moment only lands my ear next to his heartbeat. I've felt it before, often, but… I've never actually heard it.

It pounds steady. Soothing.

Increasingly too intimate.

Like eavesdropping on something meant to be private.

I know I shouldn't stay here like this, resting above that sound, trespassing in it, taking comfort from it that isn't being offered. So I blink hard at the moisture stinging my eyes, and start swallowing the rest as quickly as I can. As quietly as I can too, trying not to sniffle. Failing not to sniffle. Cringing immediately, stiffening, about to pull away, flee, run back to the station and— I-I don't know, hide in the washroom, like it's fucking middle school again—when I hear a soft sigh I wouldn't be able to discern at any other distance either.

Then Mason pulls me in even closer. Until my ear rests flat on his chest and my eyes squeeze shut.

And a new swell of emotion finally knocks some of that moisture free.

I wipe at it immediately, roughly. Smearing it across my swollen, overly-hot cheeks.

How fucking embarrassing.

All of it.

And Bobby knows it too, high off victory and armed with a new weapon for his arsenal.

“I realize you're having a… _moment_ ,” he says, smile ghosting over the word, “but you still haven't introduced me to your colleague, Alexandra.”

Mason tenses against me and shifts above, glancing down with an intensity I can easily feel pressing on the top of my head.

“You wanna finish kicking the shit out of this asshole yourself, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, words rumbling through his chest into mine. “Or do you want me to take care of it for you?”

He keeps staring, willing me to look up at him with that heavy, insistent gaze, and eventually I do. Reluctantly. Hesitantly. Meeting those unwavering grey eyes, hard with resolve and seriousness, but also…

Soft.

Somehow.

I glance away quickly.

“Not sure.” My voice comes out hoarse around the knot in my throat, and so does the quiet, faintly amused huff that follows. “Tough fucking choice, sun—” I skid past his nickname, stiffening. Not here. “I want to, but… it might be pretty funny to see how far you can throw him.”

“He'll go as far as you fucking need. Just say the word.”

Mason drags his gaze away from me to stare at Bobby, eyes darkening with something deeply predatory, that intense, piercing focus of his, the one his look sharpens into whenever missions tip sideways, unblinking and controlled, but only barely. Only just holding back the violence less than a heartbeat away. Bobby flinches beneath it, squirming visibly, uncertainty and fear flickering in his own eyes as they dart rapidly across the two of us. Probably deciding whether it's worth it or not to risk staying.

Or searching for the next weak point to burrow into.

The station's exterior lights shudder on around us, bathing everything in a slowly-brightening sodium-orange glow. It makes the flowers pop, sunset colors burning warm against the night, and I nod at them, wiping the last trace of moisture from my face.

“You think I could get him in the planter? If I punched him from here?”

Mason barks out a loud laugh and squeezes me slightly. “Don't underestimate yourself, sweetheart. You could get him much further than that.”

Another flash of uncertainty passes through Bobby—then it hardens and he starts to dig.

“Thank you both so much for handing me my next story.” He puffs up straighter. “It's about government officials abusing their authority, threatening private citizens with violence. Was the corruption already infesting our police force prior to the arrival of this mysterious Agency, or does their continued, shadowy presence indicate an oppressive new era for our freedom and safety in Wayhaven?”

Bobby wields his phone at us, voice recorder no doubt running since he forced himself into my path and every attempt to move around him as I tried to leave the station.

I raise an eyebrow. “…You realize we're both private citizens too, right? Off duty. No badge,” I explain slowly, tapping the empty spot on my belt, “not working at the moment. Not representing anything.”

Mason shrugs. “I'd still threaten him if I was on duty.”

Bobby's head swivels at Mason, eyes narrowed as he smirks confidently. “Is that due to the specific nature of your job, Specialist Agent Mason?”

Mason just stares at him, unimpressed.

I remain quiet, too. Silence only encourages Bobby. Always so eager to fill it with himself.

Always so unable to hold back when there's a chance to jerk off his ego.

“Redacted surname to conceal your identity?” Bobby continues, smirk widening. “That's what I assumed, when I strangely couldn't find one anywhere. But now, after hearing your accent up close, I bet it's Greek—along with your _actual_ given name.”

“What accent?” I blurt out.

“Yeah, I don't have an accent,” Mason agrees, in his very obvious, very lilting Greek accent.

Somehow, I manage to keep a straight face, squishing it into something that resembles a furrowed look of concern. Bobby's brow creases too, the briefest sparks of confusion and self-doubt igniting in his eyes. When they do, I clench my jaw hard.

It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing—and Mason's amused little squeeze at my hip does _not_ help.

The crease on Bobby's brow deepens, before he blows past it and presses on. “I know you're the so-called 'interrogations expert' for Unit Bravo.”

Mason snorts.

Bobby smiles, chuckling slightly. “I find that word a bit bureaucratically euphemistic myself— _interrogation_ —such an unassuming beige facade constructed around the ugly truth of what it _actually_ means.” His smile sharpens. “Would you prefer to be called a 'torturer' instead?”

That actually makes Mason break into a scoffing laugh. “Would be a lot more fucking satisfying some days if that were true,” he says, smiling back even sharper. “Like right now.”

Cracks form at the edge of Bobby's smile. “Threats of violence and now threats of torture. Does your Agency condone this appalling conduct? Are all of the members of your,” his lip curls, “ _little team_ as bloodthirsty as you?”

“Yes,” Mason replies instantly.

A loud snort escapes me and I slap my hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh.

But it slips past my palm anyway, and sputters free into the night.

“Is something funny about this, Detective Black?” Bobby's sneer rolls off my title. “Because I fail to see the humor in the situation and I'm beginning to have serious reservations about your judgment and ability to serve this community—”

“Just _beginning_ to?” I cut in, snorting again. “What was that article you wrote about me after I first got hired? Something about 'nepotistic incompetency' about to 'doom the town?'”

“It appears I was prescient as always, if this is the company you're choosing to keep. To trust.”

Bobby's expression softens and his gaze locks onto mine once more, brown eyes filling with worry, lips frowning with concern.

Or what would be worry and concern, if it came from anybody else.

“Why would this Agency need someone with a dangerous skill set like his in a small town like Wayhaven? Why would they need it so badly that they would pull an asset from halfway around the world and station him here to do it? Did you ever stop and ask yourself that, Alexandra? Or is something— _someone_ —making you too afraid to consider it?”

Mason scoffs hard and I glance up to catch him mid-eye roll. “Tell me you've made up your mind already, sweetheart,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “This guy is begging to eat a fucking fist.”

Bobby tries to remain focused on me, but his eyes still flicker to Mason. Tension pulls on his features, revealing a glimpse of the irritation lurking beneath, right before he forces his face back into what I'm sure he believes is a powerful and irresistible look of pained affection.

“I know we've had our… _difficulties_ in the past,” his voice snags over the word, cracking slightly for effect and I roll my eyes, “but regardless of how far apart they've forced us over the years, I want you to know that I _am_ still here for you if you're in trouble, Alexandra. I _will_ help you, no matter what.” He slides his hand up his chest. “I still care for you—more deeply than you know—and I always will.”

I'm not sure which scoff is louder this time—Mason's or mine.

They both blast into the night on puffs of hot breath, followed by another peal of my snorting laughter.

I glance up at Mason again after it passes, sly grin tugging at my lips. “So, I can get him past the planter. You think I could delete his bullshit recording too, with a little assistance?”

He smirks in response.

“Whatever you need.”

Mason lunges forward fluidly, beautifully, arm whipping out in a near blur to effortlessly snatch the phone away—then it's in my hands, warm and grease-crusted, before Bobby's eyes even have time to widen.

Which, they do, quickly. First in disbelief.

Then in that vacant, coiling rage I've witnessed so many times before it exploded out at me.

It always happens so fast.

The only warning I get is the sickening plummet, my stomach dropping down to anchor me on the spot, pulling that cold rush of dread along with it.

Half a decade later and I still freeze.

Bobby springs forward—

—and jerks to a stop immediately as Mason steps between us, waiting.

I stare at his back for a moment, hunched and visibly tense, even through the jacket, then I force out a sharp breath and tear my eyes away to the phone.

I stop the recording and delete it.

And…

Well…

If I've already deleted one, and already contaminated my hands with the world's grimiest fucking phone, then I'm committed—and I really ought to honor that bar of soap I'm gonna have to use up later by just deleting fucking everything while I'm here.

Bobby peers around the wall of Mason, red-faced with a severely strained smile.

“Alexandra—”

And Mason grabs him by the jaw, squeezes, and shoves him back into his spot.

“You can talk when she says you can.”

A smirk twitches at my lips, and a small twinge of satisfaction thrums in my chest. I glance back down to check his phone's settings. He's using the basic cloud sync to back everything up—which means if it's deleted here, then it's deleted from every other device linked to this account.

My smirk widens.

Good.

Well… unless he downloaded a copy of everything somewhere. I blow out a sigh.

Nothing I can do about that right now, though.

“Go ahead. Try it. Find out if you can run faster than me.”

I glance up again to see Bobby edging slightly to the side, scowl fixed on the station behind us.

Mason chuckles deeply, then adds, “Or if anyone in there actually gives a shit about what happens to you.”

He isn't wrong. I look over my shoulder, into the fluorescent light blasting through the glass panel walls. Douglas hooks over the front desk, back curved like a candy cane while he falls into his phone. It's just him in there right now, until the night shift volunteer shows up.

Well—volunteer no more. They're all paid positions now. Part time. With benefits.

And totally worth asking Rebecca to lean on the mayor as a favor to make it happen.

The sound of paper being flipped through angrily draws my attention back to Bobby—and to the small, black reporter's notebook in his hand. I raise an eyebrow as he whips out a pen too, then practically stabs the pad with it as he starts furiously scribbling. He always carried both of those things around in college, proudly tucked in his jacket pocket, but I never once saw him actually use them.

I just assumed he did it for the hipster cred.

Lips pursed, I shrug and start mass deleting his recordings. Scrolling and ticking, dragging and disappearing, fingers smearing new oily paths through the gunk on his screen with every sliding shift of movement. I resist the urge to shudder. Or worse—the instinct to wipe his phone clean on my jeans. I ignore it and power through, working quickly until, soon enough, all the recordings are gone. From the recently deleted folder, too.

I do the same for all of his notes and texts, email and voice mail, call logs and contacts. And I make sure nothing remains in the cloud storage app as well.

Good.

It won't stop him or his shitty excuse for journalism, but losing all of that data—all those jotted ideas, half-composed articles, research and years of correspondence—it should hurt. A lot. Should slow him down for a while, too.

And if not, well, there's always the option of a literal kick in the balls.

I'm about to chuck the phone back at his face when my stomach does an uneasy flip, breath snagging over it as a roll of icy needles prickle across my body.

I open up his photos instead, a moment later.

Unit Bravo feature prominently in the recent ones.

Public appearances only, at a glance, from various places around town. Felix ducking away from Mason as they enter the station together. Nate sitting at Haley's, legs folded awkwardly beneath a tiny outdoor table. Adam storming out of city hall, door slammed open and coat flared dramatically. No pictures of the Warehouse, thankfully. Or anything else implicating, as far as I can tell.

I keep scrolling back.

Through endless selfies.

A lot of them shirtless, of course. Most of them taken from places around town or the city. Some from gorgeous spots in wilderness between. At events and adventures too, all mixed in with photos of plated food and golden hour architectural shots and Bobby's arm slung around various strangers and Wayhaven elite alike, the same fake smile plastered on his face in every single image. There are pictures and video of other Wayhaven citizens too, taken from afar and up close. Covertly. Caught in the crosshair of whatever bullshit investigation he plotted against them. Just trying to go about their day, out living their lives while Bobby crept around in the bushes and painted a target on their back.

My lip curls.

And the dick pics.

So many fucking dick pics.

Who the fuck knows how many countless places those things have been shoved into unsolicited, how many people he's forced to look at them unwillingly.

Even one is too many.

I blow out a sharp breath and keep scrolling. Jumping back. Four years, five.

Until I see them.

Just a glimpse at first as I accidentally scroll past, but it's enough to recognize them, even as blurred thumbnails.

And it's enough to knock the air from my lungs, body suddenly cold except for the bile rising in my throat.

I swallow it down.

My thumb hovers above the screen for a moment, trembling slightly, before I work up the courage to scroll back.

To my nudes.

The ones he spent months badgering me into letting him take, until I finally gave in. The ones he promised me he would delete a few days later, after I told him that I really wasn't comfortable with what we did.

The ones that showed up at the tribunal too, his star witnesses, offered as proof of an inappropriate relationship that I pressured him into using my position as a teaching assistant. Last time I saw these, they were printed on handouts, glossy with toner, black bars covering my nipples and vagina to preserve my modesty while each image was studied and scrutinized by a group of men twice my age.

I blink back the sting in my eyes again.

One of the most humiliating moments of my life.

Nausea roils in my stomach and I take a deep, shuddering breath around it, the best I can, as quietly as I can, then tap over to his photo folders.

There's one with my name on it.

I open it up.

The nudes greet me there too, but so do other photos from college. Of happier moments.

Bobby and I biking together through the park. Kissing at a hockey game. Messing around in the aquarium gift shop, my hand stuffed into a shark puppet while I attack the camera. Out on dates at hole-in-the-wall hipster restaurants too, featuring impractically tall thigh-bruising stools and cherry-red lipstick and way more cleavage than I show off these days. There are even some pictures of us cuddled together and sinking into that grody, overstuffed couch, the one at that house party with the ridiculously strong edibles, where Bobby was too blazed off his ass and giggly to play devil's advocate and start pointless philosophical arguments.

I snort and flick my thumb, scrolling further. Thumbnails blur past until the roll stops.

On a picture I recognize immediately too.

I tap it open, and Bobby's face fills the screen. Mine too. Next to his. Leaning cheek-to-cheek with his arm slung around me, mountains looming over the city behind us, rocky peaks and glass towers and the deep blue water below all bathed gold and glittering in the sunset.

Bonfire night at the beach near campus.

My eyes are still slightly red in the photo. Puffy, but bright. Brimming with soft hope and joy behind slightly smeared mascara, like they hadn't been filled with silent tears less than a half-hour prior. Like I hadn't sat hunched in his kitchen chair, trembling, sick to my stomach while he yelled at me. I don't even remember about what or why, just the geometric pattern in the linoleum, his bare feet pacing back and forth across it, and then the relief that flooded through me when it all stopped.

When his arms circled around me, and he held me while I sobbed, murmuring forgiveness and promises things would be better in the future while he stroked his fingers through my hair.

My younger face smiles up at me. So happy to be in love, despite my inexperience. So happy to finally _be_ loved, despite my glaring shortcomings as a partner and a person.

So fucking unaware of what was _really_ happening—and how much worse it would get.

I don't blame her for not seeing it sooner. For any of it. I won't.

But, even now, the parts of me poisoned by him still echo his words anyway.

_We only get what we deserve, angel._

_You have no one to blame for anything but yourself._

I wipe at my eyes again with a rough drag of my sleeve—and manage to hold back the fucking sniffle this time.

Then I tap out of the folder and jump back even further in time, to the very beginning of his camera roll, and start preparing his photos for deletion.

One quick horizontal swipe to select the row, then a sharp vertical drag to make it scroll.

Back into the thicket of selfies. Of memories. Harassment.

And dick.

Every single hard-on highlighted with selection as they speed by, a blur of flesh, passing too quickly to see clearly, but still…

A forest of fucking cock.

At a certain point—little over halfway down the roll, to be specific—I can't help but mumble under my breath, “How many fucking pictures does one man need of his dick?”

Bobby shifts in the corner of my vision. “You could certainly never get enough before, and how much it… _fulfilled_ you.”

I grimace, but keep my eyes focused on the task.

“Wouldn't brag about that too much,” I mutter, then nod at Mason. “His is bigger. And he actually makes me come, so…”

Mason cracks into the loudest fucking laugh I've ever heard from him. It slams into the building and echoes around us, deep and satisfied, so much that I _have_ to look up and witness it. His back shakes in front of me and a grin tugs at my lips, spreading wider the longer I watch, the longer his amusement reverberates inside of me, until I'm laughing again too, with something soft and quiet of my own.

“I make you come _every_ time, sweetheart,” he calls out, “with or without this big cock.” His voice overflows with so much smugness it _almost_ makes me regret saying that. Though, he drops most of it from his tone quickly enough, when he snaps at Bobby, “Make sure you put that in whatever you're writing about me.”

It almost seems like Bobby will for a moment, from the way he stiffens beneath Mason's words. I snort, then the scowl on his face twists deeper before he glares over at me.

“I never took you for the type to find any appeal in such banal vulgarity.” He scoffs. “I also thought you were a little old to fall for the tired, leather jacket, chain-smoking bad boy cliché straight off a teenager's bookshelf.”

Mason scoffs harder. “No wonder this asshole never gave you any pleasure. He doesn't fucking know what you like at all.” The smirk returns. “I'm gonna have to make up for it. Start by fucking you a few extra times tonight.”

I chuckle. “Oh, you hardly needed an excuse to do that.”

“No, but I'm already making plans for it. And they involve you sitting on my face.” His voice thickens into something huskier. “It's been too long since I've tasted you.”

“You tasted me last night.”

“Too fucking long ago, like I said.” He groans slightly, in a way that makes my lips roll together. “I've been missing it all day, the feel of your thighs clenching around my head while you buck up under my tongue and scream.”

The pen cracks in Bobby's grip.

“You still getting all this? Good.”

“But to provide further edification to that quote, Bobby,” I add, as the scrolling nears the end of the roll, “I'm usually screaming _his_ name when I do that.”

Mason laughs again while I grin.

And send every single fucking photo and video into the trash.

The phone buckles beneath the strain of the task, hanging on a frozen screen for such a long moment that I start to worry, but it eventually staggers through. We both have a much easier time, two screens over, in the recently deleted folder, when I simply press the 'delete all' button.

Then the photos are gone.

All of them.

I double-check the cloud app again to make sure, but…

They're gone.

Finally.

I inhale deeply and blow out a long breath.

“Well,” I say, glancing up at Bobby, “looks like I've got a very urgent face-sitting appointment to make.” I step forward next to Mason, patting his back. “And I wanna get railed tonight too, by the chain-smoking bad boy cliché—”

“And his big cock.”

Mason smirks.

I chuckle and roll my eyes. Hard.

“Yeah, _that_ , so—if there's nothing else Bobby, I'm gonna go.”

Turning on my heel, I move to leave, then jerk to an exaggerated stop.

“Oh shit, almost forgot—your phone.”

He glares at me, silent for once, as I hold it out to him. Anger swirls in his eyes. Not the vacant, heated rage, but that icy calculation. Working the angles. Finding a trajectory for the incoming cruelty, the spot to strike for maximum damage. It doesn't concern me, though.

He's not gonna say anything I haven't already heard thousands of times before.

Bobby reaches out to take the phone—

—but just as he's about to grab it, I pull it away.

Then I wind up my bulky, too muscular arm and hurl it as hard as I can toward the street.

It sails high through the air, lost momentarily in the darkening sky above, until it plummets back into the glow of streetlights a block away, black speck careening toward the road before it smashes into the asphalt and bounces up, exploding into pieces on a spray of shards and a quiet, tinkling clatter.

“Whoops,” I say flatly. “Slipped. Probably should clean that thing more often.”

Mason snorts. “Nice. I would've aimed for his face.”

“I thought about that, but his skull isn't _that_ thick.” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “It wouldn't shatter if I threw it there.”

“It would if you threw it hard enough.”

I shake my head, grinning, and Mason slings his arm over my shoulder.

We start to leave.

“Did you delete your pictures, angel?”

I freeze mid-step.

“Don't worry, I have extensive backups of those,” Bobby coos. “Treasures should be protected, after all. Kept hidden, safe, and… private.”

A cold smirk greets me when I look over to him. It sharpens as our eyes meet, and old alarm blares distantly in my ear.

“I think your colleague is right. I don't know what you like, not anymore. You've changed so much since we parted, for the worst, and I see that now. Truly.” He slams the notebook shut and secures it with a snap of elastic. “Regardless, there's still one thing I could do for you that you _would_ enjoy—that you would absolutely _love_.”

“You're gonna eat shit and fuck off forever?” I scoff. “Aw, Bobby, don't threaten me with a good time.”

He snorts derisively. “You're so… disappointingly vulgar, Alexandra. Crude. Filthy. It's disgusting, really.” His eyes gleam maliciously. “That's how I know you'll be soaking wet and overjoyed later, when I show the world exactly how wide you can spread your legs—”

Mason punches him.

A hard cross.

With pivot.

Right in the jaw.

The notebook goes flying. The pen goes flying. The glasses go flying, too.

Even one of his boots flies off his foot and up into the night.

Bobby pirouettes wildly past the planter into the bushes, where he lands, bounces off, and crumples onto the sidewalk, out cold.

I stare at him for a moment, blinking, trembling, eyes roaming over his splayed form, face-down and unmoving beneath the sodium lamps and twilight. Another car drives by in the distance, and I glance back to Mason.

“You missed the planter.”

Mason shrugs, rubbing his knuckles. “Didn't wanna ruin the flowers.”

My lips purse in consideration for a moment, before I give a nod of agreement, finding no flaw in the logic.

I walk down the sidewalk to Bobby, then roll him over with my boot and into a puddle. Oops. He sprawls out limp, eyes shut, jaw misaligned, blood trickling slowly from the corner of his mouth. The sight of him like that doesn't fill me with happiness, exactly, or… much of anything really. Maybe a vague sense of satisfaction that he finally got what he fucking deserved. A futile bit of hope that it teaches him some kind of lesson.

Mostly I just feel… tired. Strangely calm. Flat.

That probably just means I get to look forward to all of this shit hitting me later.

Hopefully, not with the force of a proper punch thrown by a vampire.

I nudge Bobby with my toe a few times. “You didn't… kill him, right?”

Mason steps next to me, passing over the notebook before he folds his arms.

“He'll live. For now.”

“Hm. Probably won't be eating solid food for a while, though.”

Mason snorts. “Or talking.”

I grin slightly, then unzip my bag, exchanging the notebook for my keys.

We stand above Bobby for a few moments, long enough for me to finally notice the faint rise and fall of his chest. And the water soaking into the ass of his jeans, insult to fucking injury. It looks like he fucking shit himself.

So, of course, _that's_ what makes me start laughing.

Hard. Then uncontrollably. To the point where I buckle over on myself and my stomach begins to hurts and my eyes fill with tears again.

Crude and vulgar, indeed.

I don't know how long I stand there cackling, but eventually Mason nudges me. And when I unfurl to glance at him, he nods toward the end of the sidewalk, to the short set of stairs leading down to the parking lot.

And to Ennis springing up them, bundled in a puffy coat, hands jammed in pockets and on time to relieve Douglas.

They pause for a moment at the top, staring as us, then at Bobby—but they don't seem very surprised.

I raise an eyebrow.

“What happened?” they ask, walking over.

I shrug. “Ah, I dunno. Just found him like this.”

Mason grunts in agreement.

My gaze wanders toward Bobby. “Looks like he might've… got punched in the face.

Ennis glances down the sidewalk, eyes moving from boot, to glasses, to pen, to Bobby, and finally back up to us, to my swollen cheeks and watery eyes and barely-subdued grin twitching next to the flat disinterest on Mason's face.

Their eyebrow raises too, gaze twinkling with something subdued of their own. “What a shame. I'll call an ambulance.”

“Thanks.” I smile.

“Have a good night, Detective.” Ennis smiles in return, then moves to head into the station. As they pass Mason, they nod slightly—and Mason returns it, just as faintly.

My lips purse, but I don't question it either.

Add it to the pile of shit about to bury me tomorrow.

All I want to do right now is head home. Collapse into bed. Burrow into a duvet.

To that end, I sling the backpack over my shoulder again and jog down the steps into the parking lot. Mason follows, falling into step with me, and I can see it lurking in the corner of my eye, sudden and blindingly bright. And I can _feel_ it too, radiating off him.

A smirk to end all fucking smirks and the biggest regret of my evening.

Possibly of the rest of my year too—and beyond—because I am _never_ gonna hear the end of it from him.

I blow out a breath and roll my eyes. “Oh, wipe that smug fucking look off your face. I only said all that shit to piss him off.”

“No,” the smirk widens insufferably, “you didn't.”

I huff, trying not to grin as I unlock the driver's door. “Well, don't let it go to your head—either of them.”

His hands slide over my hips from behind.

“Way too late for that, sweetheart,” he whispers against my ear.

The backpack slips from my shoulder, down my arm, and he's already spinning me around before it hits the asphalt with a soft thump. The keys follow, a jangling clatter, bumped out of the lock by my ass when he presses in to kiss me. Our hands find familiar places, favored purchase, his icy and insistent, burrowing beneath the warmth of my braid, cold fingers curled around my neck and scalp while his other hand splays out across my lower back and sneaks under my jacket, my sweater, tugging up my undershirt too, until I'm arching away from what's coming, into him, nowhere to go, nothing to do but squeal protests into the heat of his mouth as the frigid chill radiates closer.

Then presses directly against my skin.

His new favorite thing to do since the weather turned cold.

A violent shiver rips up my spine and I growl against his lips. He just smirks between kisses and glides his hand higher to make it happen again.

“ _Oh_ , that's fucking it, asshole,” I nip at his lower lip and suck it into my mouth, “I'm gonna knit you those damn mittens now, the ones with the huge pom-poms.”

Mason groans into me and shifts his hand again, forcing another shiver.

“Don't need 'em when I have you.”

I start to grumble something in response, but it's lost, pulled into a noise of pleasure when he deepens the kiss. Then it spreads into a smirk of my own, when I slip my fingers through his hair, down the collar of his jacket, and drag out a shiver from the warmth of his neck too.

He growls into me, pins my hips to the car with his, cold metal crushed against my ass while that cold touch circles around to my stomach.

And back and forth it goes.

Two jerks stealing warmth and trying to make each other shiver, with frosty fingers and nips of teeth and strokes in the right places, pressed and building heat regardless.

At least, until he unexpectedly leans away—and I unthinkingly follow.

Our lips stick together briefly before they part, releasing a breathy exhale from mine that brushes over the lingering moisture on his.

Mason shivers again as he draws back to look at me.

Desire smolders in that half-lidded gaze, but it's warm and deep. Embers instead of flame. Intense and unwavering, but gentle. Quiet. Strangely soft again.

And… searching.

For something.

My gaze drops away from it, to his chest, hands sliding down there as well, over worn leather warm from my body. Uncertainty makes me swallow and shift. I don't know what he's trying to see. Or hopes to find. But it does bring to mind something I really should've said to him as soon as Bobby hit the concrete.

“Thanks, by the way. For helping me deal with him.” I bite my lip. “…For staying.”

“I go where you go, sweetheart, you know that.” His thumb swipes across my cheek to tuck strands of loose hair behind my ear. “But I think you would've done just fine without the help.”

I shrug. “Yeah, maybe. But…”

Silence hangs on the end of my sentence as the words tangle into a knot. I don't quite know how to explain what it means to even _have_ someone's help. To have someone do that for me, look out for me. And with no reservation, no judgment, no knowledge of the situation. No question either, just—

What it means that someone would think I'm worth any of that. Worth standing up for at all.

Even just as a teammate. Even just temporarily.

What it means to have someone—

I huff out a breath and smile faintly.

It doesn't matter. Mason wouldn't give a shit about my explanations regardless, even _if_ I had them.

“Thanks anyway,” I say finally, patting his jacket a few times before I slide my hands away.

He catches one before it can fall. Holds it near his chest, cradling me there in his grasp, in shared warmth, fingers curled around the back of my hand while his thumb strokes something so soft against my palm it's almost imperceptible.

“You okay?”

I raise an eyebrow, smile pulling into a smirk as I give him a wink. “I'll be on time for my appointment, sunshine, don't worry.”

He raises his eyebrow too, frowning slightly. “That's not what I'm worried about.”

And that's… not what I expected him to say.

My smirk falters slightly as he stares at me, brow furrowing.

I glance away again.

“Well, I'll be ready for the mission tomorrow too.” I grip his hand in return, shaking it back and forth slightly while I grin. “I can even run properly again. No more sad, limping horse gallop.”

Mason blows out a sharp breath and forces our hands still. “That's not what I'm asking about, sweetheart. Stop ducking around the question.”

“Ducking around what, exactly? I answered you.”

“You were crying earlier. Twice.”

His jaw tenses, like maybe the words are knotting on his tongue too, and he can't quite unravel an explanation either.

I look away before he does, heat burning my face, and I'm suddenly too aware of the blood throbbing in my ears and throat, the pulsation across my cheeks and down my arms, the heartbeat driving it all, the hard, heavy thrum pounding against the wall of my chest.

It's loud for me. At this distance, it must be almost deafening for him.

“I felt it,” he murmurs, voice almost lost when the beat spikes. “Even before I touched you. Could've felt it coming off you from how far away you threw that fucking phone.”

I don't say anything in response. Don't even breathe, really.

“Anger and fear.”

My back stiffens.

“Pain.” His hand tightens around mine, thumb rubbing erratic circles around my palm while the wind rustles the last leaves in the trees and a siren plays in the distance. “A lot of it, Alex…”

I wonder if he felt the sudden tightness clawing up my chest and into my throat. The shallow breaths around it. The overwhelming sting in my eyes, in my nose.

I wonder if he feels it right now.

And how invasive it must seem at this distance.

“Yeah, well…” My voice is thick again. Hoarse. I swallow around it and force an exhale. “It's just old stuff. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that matters.”

I'm not sure whether the words are meant more for him—or for me.

Either way, he doesn't respond. Or move. Or do anything other than stare down at me with that heavy gaze of his.

I was wrong, too.

About my biggest regret of the evening.

I've… fantasized about it for so long, ever since I stepped into the hallway outside that final tribunal, air warm from the early afternoon light spilling in through the glass, shaking uncontrollably, too sick and too overwhelmed to even feel relief, especially not when he exited out the other set of doors and called my name down the corridor, in that exact same tone as all of his forgiveness and fucking lies.

I stormed away instead.

Kept walking. Ended up collapsed under a tree somewhere across campus, near the water. Slumped against the bark, exhausted and aching everywhere. Covered in grass stains with runs in my stockings and gashes in my palms. Nail marks. From clenched fists.

And the bitter, incandescent fury—for him and for me—that I hadn't blazed down that hallway and struck my name from his mouth.

That I didn't follow him to the parking lot, stalking from behind before I curled my hand into his hair, twisted, and smashed his head against the car door. That I never cracked my books across his temple whenever he cornered me on campus afterward. Or that I never stomped down the stairs and planted my foot into his chest, sent him flying off our porch and into the rose bushes every time his fucking voice drifted up through the window before my roommates told him to fuck off. Or that I didn't slam him face first into the fucking produce when he sidled up next to me at the grocery store a few months after I returned to Wayhaven.

Or that I've fucking failed to do any of the other countless fucking things I've thought of doing to him since, every fucking time, as he's sneered comments at me and stalked me around town and haunted me through his headlines.

And after all of that, after everything he's done, everything he continues to do, when I _finally_ decide to let it out, to come at him, guns blazing, tonight of all fucking nights, I just—

Trip over my own feet.

Just stumble forward, wide-eyed into a dead stand, and let him insult me.

Again.

All that time and distance and training and fantasizing…

And the only thing I could do was freeze up and cry.

Like I never left his kitchen.

The siren blares in the distance, long whines stretching closer, and the fingers at my nape curl into my scalp, tugging slightly, gently, encouraging me to glance up.

His brow is still furrowed when I do. Eyes still soft. Quiet. Gorgeous, really, that endless and intense grey.

Now that I actually stop to look.

Mason leans down and kisses me again.

Not with his usual passionate eagerness. Or barely restrained desire.

It's still deep and intense. Urgent. But… slow.

Soft.

Somehow.

Just like his eyes.

And just as unfamiliar.

I return it anyway, lips moving to a strange rhythm, longer slides of tongue and breathy inhales, quiet groans and stubble scratching lightly against my chin as the siren gets louder.

His thumb swipes across my cheek too, and he squeezes my hand, shifts it, shifts us, brushing my fingers over cold leather and even colder hardware, until they bump into the tab of his zipper and remain. I grab it, freezing metal between my thumb and forefinger and, as soon as I do, he pulls our hands down. Down the bumpy track, teeth clicking and slowly parting, one at a time, a long descent, to the hitch at the end, the slight catch at terminus, before his jacket falls open and the tab jangles free and the heat of his body rolls out to me, strong enough to feel even through my layers.

He drags his thumb across my palm next as we continue to kiss, a hooped stroke curving at apex into a dull scrape of nail, right before his fingers lace between mine and open my hand. Then he spreads me against his stomach and presses flat. His hand splays atop mine, fingers still twined, blanketing me between his touch and the thin fabric of his shirt, the rolling planes of his abs and the hair that shifts slightly beneath on every draw of his breath. He pushes upward after a moment, rumpling cloth, dragging wrinkles, sliding us up his body to the growing siren, louder and louder, up through the center of his chest when we suddenly circle back slightly.

Until we stop above his heart.

It pounds faster than I heard earlier, but still the same.

Steady. Soothing.

Beating directly into my grasp as he holds me there.

The siren surrounds us. Deafening, but… distant.

I'm more enveloped in the heat of his touch and heartbeat, the way it thrums into me joining mine, reverberating around each comforting inhale of smoke and sandalwood, echoing back against the solid warmth of his body, the needy movement of our mouths and lips, the taste of his tongue and every urgent, unspoken word he's saying to me right now.

I press closer to hear better, raise up on my toes, open my hand even wider, until my skin stretches over my palm and my knuckles ache. He groans softly, fingers tightening on my neck and hand, encouraging, drawing me toward him.

Closer. So much closer.

And at this distance, it almost sounds like—

The siren cuts out with abrupt sharpness, startlingly fast, and ringing silence screams in my ears instead.

—nothing.

I pull back from the kiss with a breathy gasp, drop my heels with even heavier breathing, and open my eyes, catching his for the briefest instant before I tear them away.

Red lights flash across the parking lot and I look toward them eagerly. Doors open and slam shut on the ambulance as the responders emerge from it and jog up the stairs with their kits. My heartbeat thunders in my ears now, dissonant with the beat under my palm, but they still occasionally align and match.

Still find a rhythm together.

I swallow and slide my hand out from beneath his.

It was just a kiss.

“We should go,” I murmur.

A long moment passes before he moves, before his fingers squeeze at my nape so gently that it's probably just an errant twitch, then Mason pulls away and bends over to pick up my keys and bag. He holds the former out to me, and my hand curls around them without looking.

It was just something to get me back in the mood.

I turn to get in the car. Unlock the door for him. Sit while he climbs in with a slam. Click the seat belt, press the clutch, and start the engine.

Just something to make me eager—

As we pull out of the station driveway, the responders carry a stretcher up the stairs in the rearview.

Something to keep me wanting—

The streetlights and recent rain make the road hard to follow, the lines difficult to see.

And squirming in my seat—

But I've traveled this route frequently, often enough to navigate it under any condition.

—on the long drive back to my apartment.

Even with my eyes shut.

I turn off the tree-lined street onto the main road through town, bare boughs arching above giving way to painted brick, gas lamps, and a buzz of Friday night activity.

A field of brake lights and billowing exhaust choke the intersection by the Square, and we roll to a stop in the middle of it at a red light. Rush hour traffic, such as it exists in Wayhaven, from the shift change at the sawmill and last minute groceries and excited dinner plans. Normally, I time things to miss all of this, but…

I glance at Mason out of the corner of my eye. He slouches in the passenger seat, pack tucked between his thighs, one hand resting on it as he stares out the side window, cheek on fist, seemingly lost in thought. The quality of silence rolling off him feels more contemplative than usual, anyway.

But I'm probably just imagining that, too.

I force my attention back out the window, to the bustle of people on the sidewalk, the movement of shopping bags and takeout, dogs on leashes and children on shoulders, groups clumped together and spilling out of the entrances to bars and restaurants, and then to the rain, when it starts to patter against the roof and windshield.

I'm just… rattled. Too many old memories. Too many wounds not _nearly_ as healed as I thought.

And way too much fucking Bobby.

Then again, that could be said about _any_ amount of him.

The light changes, but we miss it and have to wait for another. At the front of the line, at least.

I stop in front of the cross walk, absently wiggling the stick in neutral before I take my foot off the clutch. Raindrops continue to rapidly accumulate on the glass, each one glowing with reflection, covering the windshield in a sea of bright red droplets.

Hard to see the pedestrians beyond it, laughing loudly and smiling as they hurry through the headlights. Not that it matters at the moment, because I'm stopped. Because I can't keep focused on them anyway. Because they're a world away from the two of us and the quiet in this car filled with the sound of everything I didn't hear.

And the look in his eye I can't get out of my mind either.

The raw glimpse I saw before I turned away.

The impossible name for it.

That softness.

The steering wheel creaks under my grip as I stare hard into the red.

_Care_.

The droplets on the windows flash green.

I bump the wipers, smear them away, and drive home.


End file.
